


Playing Pretend

by Witete



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Angst, Gen, Illness, Post-Weirdmageddon, Stan O' War II, brain trauma AU, this au still murders me even months later
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-23
Updated: 2017-09-23
Packaged: 2019-01-04 13:43:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,479
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12170040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Witete/pseuds/Witete
Summary: Playing pretend isn't as easy as it used to be.





	Playing Pretend

**Author's Note:**

> This was written months ago, but I still really like the idea so I've posted it here.  
> Enjoy ;)

He can pretend; if that’s one thing he’s sure of, it’s that. If one was to survive as long as he did, he had to play pretend; convincing someone that you had more money to bet even though you were a few thousand in the gutter. He can display a smile, tense at the corners, but there nonetheless even if he had less than nothing to smile about. He could conceal the wounds, make them look like they didn’t hurt even though they smarted and burned beyond all hell. He had to pretend- if he didn’t, he was an easy meal, a target, a reason.

The issue with pretending, the issue with ignoring the struggles because he  _had to_  –at least that’s what he tells himself now- is that when a heart is worn upon a sleeve, suddenly he’s open and vulnerable; easy target; easy meal. So, yeah, that little voice that protects him, has kept him safe all that time is  _loud_  and forceful and…enticing, in a twisted sense.  _Never don your pain, your weakness, your agony; never give him a reason to dislike you (cast you aside like he should have- never should have said “yes”)._

And that’s what it always came back to, like clockwork, like a pendulum: Stan. Even when Ford  _hated, was confused by, scared by_ Stan, thoughts would always wriggle their way in, settling inside his chest like a weight. No, he never hated him; as much as he believed it sometimes, that was untrue. He knew that  _he_  didn’t hate Stan. Never. He’d do anything for him, especially now- after he has so much to make up to him. But always, that anxiety loomed, that voice, the protector that said  _Stan’s the one who’s pretending._

_-pretending that you’re worth something. What are you worth?_

_Prove it._

So, he’s trying. He’s pushing, pulling, crawling past whatever oily guilt or heavy heartedness that he’s feeling and making Stan feel at home, happy, and blind to the mistake Ford is convinced he has made.

But it’s paying off. Whatever Ford is doing or trying to do is making Stan smile genuinely. Vacant is that fake smile that Stan used to stamp on his face. Seeing the way that Stan breathes in the ocean air every morning, seeing the way he moves fluidly across the deck as if he’s been doing it his whole life makes Ford’s existence feel worth it.

Except for the fact that Stan’s facsimile grins are becoming his own.

He can pretend; that’s what he convinces himself.

So when the dizzy spells hit and his legs seem to lock below his hips and Stan looks at him carefully, his eyes still and concerned, Ford laughs it off, saying his sea legs haven’t caught up to him yet.

Ford never sticks around long enough to see if Stan had taken the bait.

So it’s getting harder to pretend. It’s getting harder to ignore the voice in his head that’s yelling at him to  _get up and do his work, even if his limbs ache- can’t leave it all for Stan. That’s unfair. That’s selfish. You’re selfish. How_ dare _you._

Clockwork. Pendulums . Stanley.

So it’s getting harder to…be.

Mornings become harder. A simple “good morning” turns to a “mornin’” which devolves to a “murnhg” or something as equally as unintelligible.

Coffee doesn’t fix the morning dreariness now. Words dance on his tongue, coating it like thick saliva. It muffles his intentions, contorting the words beyond comprehension sometimes.

Stan doesn’t think much of it at first-  _thank god,_ Ford’s brain huffs- and just takes it as too many long nights and too much research under his brother’s nose. Ford laughs-what else can he do-agreeing with his brother.

The laugh settles heavily in his gut because Stan’s wrong. Ford’s wrong.

_Something’s wrong._

Days become harder. A simple knot makes his fingers ache and tense, the nerves tingling like carpal tunnel, but he hasn’t written or drawn in days. His hands shake too much now. He says sleeplessness. He wishes he was telling the truth.

His strides become stiff, less confident. It feels some days as if rods have been stuffed into his bones, keeping his legs straight and uncomfortable.

Uncomfortable? Are they? He can’t feel his toes anymore.

Okay, maybe that causes concern, but god forbid Ford says anything to Stan. That voice keeps him at bay.

_Make yourself worth it._

Nights become harder. He forces himself to climb into bed a lot earlier than normal,  _wishing, hoping, praying_  that is was just sleep deprivation and not something else. He wants to prove to himself that he was never actually pretending in the first place. There’s no façade; there’s no fake smiles or laughs; that there’s no pain. No matter how much he tries, sleep doesn’t come. He lays, lucid, eyes staring upwards towards the ceiling, his heart pounding. His brain tortures him (how an ironic term, he thinks later) with thoughts of pain and guilt and fear.

Someone would have to be blind if they couldn’t see Stan becoming more and more concerned as time went on. Ford’s frequent stumbles or the disturbing way his eloquence has been stripped, leaving him mumbling and muttering simple phrases and words. Ford constantly pushing his hands together and to his forearms and to his shoulders, as if massaging them; the way his eyes would flicker, as if following a fast moving insect, when it was only Stan before him, trying to keep eye contact.

Stan was getting incredibly fearful for his brother.

So like clockwork, like a pendulum, Stan asks:

“Are you okay?”

“Are you sure?”

“Please don’t lie to me, Ford.”  

Like an echo, altered and contorted:

“Yes.”

“Definitely.”

“I’m not.”

Until he cannot echo anymore.

“Murnhg” turns to nothing.

Nothing except for the fear pounding inside his head, pulsating and moving like slime. He wants to scream, but his lips won’t obey. He wants to kick off the covers – _too hot, too hot! -_  But he’s stuck. His mind is completely lucid, but his body won’t accept any of the signals he’s trying to send. This body isn’t his. It can’t be. He’s torn from it, but stuck inside, like that one time-

_-god don’t think about that don’t don’t don’t dontdontdontdont_

Finally, after what feels like hours of paralysis, his arms begin to obey him. They shiver and shudder as he moves them tantalizingly slowly towards his side, treating them as if they would snap at any second. Pins and needles shudder up his entire body, as if he had just woken up from some sort of ice induced coma.

He props himself up against the wall behind him, moving his hands in front of his face, trying to keep them still. Both hands and forearms feel heavy against his elbows and his hands are shaking as if electricity is channeling through them; twitching and tensing and relaxing and going limp and repeating.

Clockwork. Pendulums.

“Ford?”

The voice pierces the air and Ford turns his head, the muscles in his neck stiff.

Stan is standing in the doorway, his fingers drumming on the door jam. He swallows worriedly and his eyes knit up in worry.

Ford can tell he’s hesitating. They both know the question that’s coming, but at this point, Ford needs it.

Ford needs a reason to break. He’s growing fissures.

That voice is screaming, trying to hold him together with those echoes.

_You’re fine. You’re fine. You’re fine you’re fine you’re fine you’re fine!_

“You okay, buddy?”

Before Stan can even finish his sentence, Ford his shaking his head as hard as he can, though it’s only moving about half the arc as he wants. His neck hurts. His head is pounding.

He tries to speak, but only a half formed sound of fearful anguish makes it past his lips, words and theories and terrors bubbling at the back of his throat, never forming- only existing.

The voice in his head is poisonous, but whatever it’s saying is just about as garbled and as scrambled as his own. He just knows it hurts. He knows he can’t pretend anymore.

Stan is climbing up the ladder to his twin’s bunk, stopping at the last few rungs as there isn’t enough room at the top for the pair of them to be. Ford considers it a blessing and a curse.

“What’s wrong, Ford? I don’t like seeing ya like this.”

 _You failed_ , the voice yells. Ford ignores it.

Again, he tries to speak, but nothing forms on his tongue. A choked breath escapes his parted lips and tears form in his eyes.

“You-“ Stan swallows thickly, his voice quaking just as much as his brother’s body. “You c-can’t speak, can you?”

He shakes his head furiously, the tears finally falling from the places in his eyes.

The clock stops. The pendulum is interrupted.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tentatively opening up requests again. Comment any fic ideas you may have and I may write them!


End file.
